


For the Ages

by thedevilchicken



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Consensual Violence, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they did it, she was young. But that wasn't to say she was too young to know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Ages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morrigan21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrigan21/gifts).



She likes to tie him up. 

It's not that she doesn't like his hands on her, because she does. They're rough and tanned and calloused at the fingertips; they tell a rather eloquent story about who he is, scars and gouges and burns from ropes or powder, splinters he sucks out and spits into the dirt. They say he's a sailor and more than that: he's a pirate. They say it because sometimes when he comes to her there's blood beneath the nails that he can't wash away. She doesn't ask him to.

She likes to tie him up, sometimes just for the start of things, sometimes for the whole evening. She doesn't have ropes like you'd find on a ship though she supposes she could get them if she wanted to, because frankly there's little that it's impossible for her to lay her hands on there in Nassau if she greases the right palm or calls in the right favour. She doesn't have ropes so she uses thick strips that she's cut from fine bed linen, that she cut with his knife one night while he watched her, naked, from the bed. He taught her how to tie ten different kinds of knots, patient and amused by her intent, and she's used them all on him at one time or another. 

When he comes to her she has him strip down to his skin while she watches from a chair across the room. He turns as slow circle once he's done, bare from head to toe with his clothes and his weapons discarded on the floor, his arms outstretched, and she watches him. He's not the only man she's ever known and he'd likely not even the prettiest, but the sight of him in the candlelight's compelling. Perhaps he wouldn't make a husband but as a lover he's quite pleasing to the eye.

Then sometimes she ties him up while he's still standing, his arms and legs spread wide between the posts at the foot of her bed. Sometimes, once she has, she leaves him there and drinks from a glass in her chair while she watches him watch her, his impatience growing. Sometimes, she presses her mouth to his collarbone, his chest, to his abdomen, sucks his cock into her mouth and makes him strain with it. Sometimes, she holds the point of his own sword right up against his throat or she runs the point of a dagger down his slim torso from throat to balls, teases the length of his cock with it till he's hard and watching avidly. She likes the way he has to fight to stay still and to stay quiet, the way his skin flushes with arousal. She likes the way he pulls against his bonds just hard enough to make the wooden bedposts creak, but never tries to free himself. He likely could.

Sometimes, she ties him up on the bed on his hands and knees and she strips to her skin while he watches her do it, helpless. The look on his face as she brings up one leg, puts one foot up on the mattress and shows herself to him just makes her wetter, the way his eyes move over her, the way they linger on her parted lips, her breasts, her cunt. She spreads herself open and he watches, sees her sucking at her fingertips then rubbing at her clit. She loves the way his cock gets stiff in no time at all as he watches her. She loves the way it takes no time at all to make him come, once she has, barely touching him at all. 

And sometimes, she ties him up on the bed on his back, his arms and his legs all spread out wide around him, bonds tight, limbs taut. Sometimes then she touches him, runs her hands over his skin, his scars, the brand at his chest though that makes his gaze darken. Then she'll strip and he'll watch and maybe then she'll straddle him, she'll let his hard cock rest against her belly or she'll tuck it back against her sex and rake her nails against his chest, lean in low to suck his collarbone until it bruises, while he strains. Then she'll have him, if she feels inclined; she'll slide his cock right up inside her cunt and ride him, rub herself until she comes and he does, sweaty, breathless, satisfied. 

Of course, it's been years since they first met by now, and sometimes what she wants is something else entirely. _Sometimes_ includes tonight, she thinks.

\---

The first time they did it, she was young. But that wasn't to say she was too young to know better. 

He'd been watching her and she liked the way he did it, like he didn't care who saw because he knew just what he wanted and had absolutely no shame. He'd been watching her for months, on and off, whenever Teach's ship came into port with him on it, watching her about her father's business there in Nassau town by day, watching her drink in the tavern when here drank by night. She'd catch a glimpse every now and then throughout the day, see him down by the beach with his shipmates, leaning up against the blacksmith's wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a small smile on his face. Anyone else and she might have had him beaten for it, discreetly but effectively. Sometimes, these days, she wishes she had. 

The first time was late at night, or maybe it was early in the morning. The moon was full outside and she was drunk for not the first time, for not even the first time that week, and as she closed up for the night she weaved about the tables, her long skirt swaying round her calves. She'd long since found she had a head for business on her shoulders that was at least as adept as her father's, coupled with a work ethic ten times stronger, but some nights it wasn't only her profits that made her wet. And then there he was, as if by magic, a trick of the light, the moon on the water, standing there in the doorway she would have sworn ten seconds ago she'd locked. Perhaps it was the drink that was muddling her head. Perhaps he'd just picked the lock. 

He opened his mouth to speak but she put a finger to his lips, then hers, then his again, so he kept quiet as he looked amused. She stroked his cheek with her fingers and he looked at her just like he always did, always had, always has, and maybe that look there on his face wasn't quite unique, maybe she'd seen it before on scores of other sea-worn, sun-beaten sailors there to sell their ill-gotten gains at port. Maybe _he_ wasn't quite unique either, just another in a very long line of rum-swilling, skirt-chasing ne'er-do-wells come across the sea to New Providence to seek their fortune and find a bottle of rum instead. But even if she couldn't say that he was different, she liked the way that he carried himself, the way his fingers curled idly at the hilt of his sword, his light eyes, his long hair, his cocky smile. 

So, it seemed fair that she took him by the hand and she led him a merry dance between the tables, led him circuitously to the tavern's back door and into the little storage yard beyond it. She didn't bother with the usual coquettish smile she'd used to charm her previous conquests, didn't make-believe her innocence or that she'd been saving it all up for him. She was already far from virginal, as she suspected he was. 

She looked at him hard-eyed and flushed, and then she slapped him straight across the face. He laughed. 

He kissed her; she bit him. He pushed her up against the wall; she struck out at his face again. Then she pulled him to her by the buckle of his sword belt at his waist, kissed him, clawed him, rucked up her skirts. He fumbled with his worn old leather trousers then he pushed straight up inside her, one thrust straight to the hilt that made him gasp and made her gasp and made her hitch one leg up round his waist, made her suck her own fingers then rub hard and fast at her clit. She came around him only brief minutes later. He came in her moments after. And while he was still shoved up hard inside her, catching his breath, she slapped his face again. 

"You're out of your fucking mind," he told her, but the way he said it sounded like a compliment. And when he'd pulled back, when he'd pulled out, when he'd tucked himself back in, he kissed her. 

"You're fucking mad," he said, and he grinned, all teeth, his hand tight in her loose hair. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'll want you again."

"Maybe I won't want you," she said, and he laughed. 

"You will," he said. "You've wanted me since that day we met, just like I've done you." And he left through the tavern, the way that he'd come. 

As she righted her skirts and made ready to leave, she thought through that notion; in the end, she supposed it was true. Besides, he was back the next night, and he had her again. She let him. She wanted it.

\---

When he arrives at the house, he knows better than to knock at the front door. Of course, sometimes he does it anyway, just because he can, even though they both know he knows better. She supposes it's not like there's anyone left in Nassau doesn't know they're fucking. 

"You're late," she says at the door, lamp in hand. 

He shrugs, his hand curling there at the hilt of his sword, but she knows it's from force of habit more than menace. "I didn't know we fucked to a schedule," he says. "Are you going to let me in?"

She lets him in because she always lets him in, even when they've argued, when they're taking one of their little breaks or they've at least intended to. She lets him in and she locks the door and she leads him up the stairs and doesn't bother to be quiet as she goes. It's not like the servants don't know he comes there, after all. It's not like they're all scandalised by it. 

Up in her room, she closes the door and she puts down the lamp on the writing desk. Then she turns to him, and she offers him a drink. 

Mr Scott likes to tell her she shouldn't drink so much. He doesn't tell her it's not ladylike - he knows her well enough to know she doesn't care much about the things a _real lady_ would do - but he tells her tales of woe that she's sometimes sure he exaggerates for effect but also sometimes fears are true. But she sits down with Charles Vane at the little table by her window and she pours rum from a bottle into two cloudy glasses. She pushes one to him and takes the other for herself. They drink. She pours again. They drink again. She pours. 

Sometimes he tells her stories about the places he's been and the things that he's done and she doesn't tell him the only place she's ever really known is Nassau because he knows that already, knows _her_ already. He's not mocking her when he tells her those things, not telling her for effect, to make himself sound fearsome or impressive. She likes to listen and he knows it. It's like the stories she used to make up in her head when she was younger, looking out over the sea and the ships and the pirates that sailed them and wondering what their lives were like. She knows now.

Some say he's the last real pirate left, the only one with any guts or sense of what it means to be a buccaneer. He has his own ship now, his own crew, his own black banner, no longer sailing under Teach. She can believe what they say when she listens to his stories. She finds it oddly thrilling. 

He puts down his glass, more rum in him by now than most men could drink and stand up straight, and he rubs his face with both his hands. He chuckles, shakes his head. 

"Eleanor, I'm really fucking drunk," he says, and slurs her name adorably just like he always does when he's had that much. Of course, he didn't really have to tell her that he's drunk. That was more or less the point of this. 

She knocks back the remains of her glass and she stands, steadies herself for a moment because she's not exactly sober, either. Then she rounds the table and she settles herself down there in his lap. She loops her arms around his neck. She kisses his forehead. She twists his hands into his hair the way she knows he likes, almost too tightly.

"Do you love me, Charles?" she asks, and he gropes her right breast which is completely unsurprising. She doesn't bother to push that hand away; after all, the pinch of his thumb and first finger at her nipple feels quite pleasant. But he doesn't reply, so she takes his head in both her hands and she makes him look at her and not her cleavage. 

"Do you love me, Charles?" she asks again, while he's looking her straight in the eye, while she has his full attention. 

"Yes," he says. And he slides one hand under her dress but that's not to say he doesn't mean it. He's meant it since even before the first time he said it, one night over drinks in his cabin on his ship. She remembers how pleased she felt, how warm, how thrilled, then he put his head between her thighs and licked her till she came. 

"Would you kill for me, Charles?" she asks. 

"Yes," he says, and his look goes dark with it, goes serious, like she imagines he looks when he takes a life or at the very least fears for his own. Then he squeezes her thigh, then his hand moves up higher; she's wearing nothing underneath the skirt, the way she does sometimes, and his fingers tease between her thighs. His fingers tease the lips of her cunt, her clit, push up inside her, find her wet already. She feels like she's been wet for days, waiting for him to return to Nassau, to her bed.

"Do you love me, Eleanor?" he asks. 

She slaps him. She stands and she walks away. 

There's so many ways it could go from here, and she knows that. He could go to her and kiss her mouth, take her face in his hands, ruck her skirts and have her up against the bedroom door. He could sit there and pour another glass of rum, drink till the bottle's run dry and till he's far too drunk to fuck so the only thing she can do is to join him. He could ask her the same question again, again and again, murmur it in her ear, against her skin as he undresses her, lay her down and touch her, kiss her, his fingers inside her, his mouth at her clit, make her come once and then again and then _again_ till she can't stand it and she's actually convinced she loves him too. 

What he does is leave the table, his jaw set. What he does is draw a dagger, raise his brows. He could kill her in ten seconds flat and leave her bloody on the floor and it might be she wouldn't even have the time to scream before he did it, but he's not going to kill her, even if one day he might just come to wish he had. He pushes her back to the wall and he cuts her bodice open. He pulls rough at the neck of her blouse and tears that with the blade just the same. He shoves the point through her skirt and pulls it apart from hip to hem and then he puts the knife up to her throat. 

"Do you love me, Eleanor?" he asks, her clothing hanging ruined, her breasts and her legs and her cunt exposed to him. And she slaps him, and he laughs and the knife stings at her throat just a fraction, likely drawing blood. It's a good thing he's careful.

He frees his cock with his free hand and he pushes it inside her, hard. She pushes him back and he slips back out of her. She slaps his face, so he drops the knife to the floorboards with a clatter and he throws her, _throws_ her, bodily, onto the bed, and follows after. He pushes into her, pins her hands with one of his, makes her writhe underneath him almost like she doesn't want it when it's all she's wanted since he knocked at her door and for days even before that. He does it hard, he does it deep, the force jarring; he's not a weak man by any stretch of her imagination, not weak and not a fool and definitely not to be trifled with. One day she'll go too far, but tonight isn't it. Tonight he just fucks her, hard, the way she likes.

Then the fingers of his free hand push between the two of them, find her clit, and she's so wet the tips of of his fingers rub slickly, make her gasp and push against them. And maybe she wants him to go on, wants him to fuck her till she can barely even stand, but he slows, and he stops, and he goes up on his knees with his cock pushed in just deep as it can go. He keeps stock still while he rubs her while he's in her till she's shifting her hips to fuck herself on him and she hates herself for it but there's just no way she's going to stop when it feels like it does. She comes like that, her fingers knotted in the sheets, her back arching till it almost hurts. She comes like that, despite herself. Then he thrusts again and it's not twenty seconds till he's done, too. 

She pulls off all her ruined clothing afterwards and slips naked into bed; he joins her, because there's no one in the town that doesn't know he's had her, doesn't know that Charles Vane is her creature, so there's no reason to pretend. He brushes back her sweat-damp hair, he watches her propped there on one tanned arm and trails his fingers down between her breasts, over her belly, pats at her cunt with his palm. 

"Do you love me, Eleanor?" he asks, and frankly she's not sure he really wants to know the answer. He wants her to say yes. She should probably say no. She says nothing, that politic line she has to walk; she blows out the candle, and in the dark she doesn't say a word. She kisses him instead. 

There'll be a day when she has to choose, and she knows that, and she knows what it is she'll choose. It's not him, though she actually wishes it could be. It's not that she doesn't love him, after all. It's just that saying so would give him entirely the wrong impression or where her priorities lie. 

In the end, it's not a love for the ages. But when she kisses him, it's definitely a love for tonight.


End file.
